


Sixty Ways to Ditch a Bag-Boy

by cadenzamuse



Category: Gilmore Girls
Genre: Break Up, Character Bashing, Dysfunctional Relationships, F/M, Gen, Juvenilia, WIP Amnesty
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-12-14
Updated: 2013-11-27
Packaged: 2018-01-02 20:08:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,206
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1061075
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cadenzamuse/pseuds/cadenzamuse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An exploration of endings.  (Re-post of juvenilia from fanfiction.net.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Send Him a "Dear John" Letter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Disclaimer:** I am not Amy Sherman-Palladino. I am not even a very good imitation. I don't want money; I don't want fame; I just want to take her characters out for a ride. I'll play nicely.
> 
>  **Author's Note:** As I say, this is an exploration of endings. It isn't particularly anti-Dean; it certainly isn't pairing Tristan and Rory (I am a bit too snobbish to say "Trory"), other than for this part. Chapters (if more inspiration comes) will be completely unconnected and more like a series of AU vignettes. And yes, I'm a rather prickly individual, why do you ask? I don't think I mind reviews, though. Tentatively.

"I'd kiss you good-bye, but your boyfriend's right there." He shifted awkwardly, half the cocky bastard and half as unsure as she'd ever seen him. Vulnerable, almost. Giving her the chance for the unspoken I-told-you-so--he _was_ better than this, he _had_ been being stupid, and now there were no excuses or ways to charm himself out of his mess. Even when she was babbling innocently--"so apologize and give back the money..."--they both knew his magic had run out. This time, there were consequences.

She ignored the mention of Dean, brushing it out of her mind impatiently in favor of the more important parts. He had a soul, underneath all the bravado, and while it might not reach Mother Theresa standards, it was definitely closer to Billy Graham than Tammy Faye Bakker. Good people weren't supposed to be punished for stupidity like this; military school was for the Junior Burglars of America and the sons of ex-Navy SEALs.

Military school was almost like going off to war; she figured he had a fifty-fifty chance of survival. It wasn't right, and it wasn't fair, and weren't soldiers supposed to have a sweetheart to come home to? She bit her lip angrily and avoided his eyes. It was far too late for I-told-you-so's.

"Bye, Mary," he said, and attempted a smile. It was a good attempt: half of it steadied into the patented Tristan smirk. It was the other half--the half the tipped down into the bewilderment and shame that Tristan couldn't let himself articulate--that broke her heart.

He shifted again and turned away, leaving her to watch the arc of his neck and back, interrupted by his jacket. It was almost an epiphany: _no one else cares. No one else sees. Isn't he supposed to have someone to come home to?_

"I don't care," she found herself saying, and she was relieved when he turned back.

"What?" His voice was blank and fuzzy and entirely Tristan, and she still didn't like him, but he didn't deserve _this_.

She could feel Dean's eyes burning into her side, and she didn't like the feeling. It was stifling. So she said it again. "I don't care."

"About what?"

"That my boyfriend's watching." She watched impassively while his brain skimmed backwards through their conversations, stopping along the way in his own versions of their silences, finally alighting on his throw-away parting shot.

His smirk returned, and she took courage from the knowledge that both sides of it held firmly. "Well," he returned, "if you insist..." But his eyes were as soft as any other time he had had all his barriers down, and she was somehow surprised that she was not confused or regretful. This was what she wanted, and she knew it.

She stood very still, with her boyfriend still staring at her from a distance, and she held Tristan's eyes until he came too close for her to focus on them any more. Then she closed her own.

He cupped her face in his hands, which were large and unremarkable and ever-so-slightly damp, and he leaned down to her and kissed her sweetly.

He had better sense than to kiss her for very long, and he wasted half a second on regret at never getting to kiss her thoroughly--never getting to trap her up against Paris's locker and annoy half the junior class, never getting to tease her along so slowly that it was painful for both of them, never getting to find the sensitive spots on the roof of her mouth. Then the regret flew out of his mind completely, because she began to kiss him back, and he begged whatever gods were watching to let him sear the next four and a half seconds into his brain permanently.

They broke apart, hearing Dean and Mr. DuGray coming to make a scene. Tristan smirked again, thoughts of military school beginning to close over the warmth in his eyes. "Bye, Mary."

"Bye, Tristan." She put her arms around him for a moment, comfortably, and then let him turn from her to meet his father half-way down the hall. She watched them for a moment, Tristan making excuses for his behavior that--perhaps the magic had returned--actually worked, and then turned to meet her boyfriend as he broke free of the crowd.


	2. Make a Run for the Nearest Battered Women's Shelter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _27 November 2013: If I wrote this now, I wouldn't use this chapter title, as I think it's flippant about a serious subject. I also no longer believe that it's acceptable for adult women to hit men, because I don't believe it's acceptable for anyone to hit someone without consent. This story is eight years old, and I am choosing to post it as is, including the problematic chapter title, as a record of my past, rather than editing out the shameful parts of my history._
> 
>  
> 
>  **Disclaimer:** I am not Amy Sherman-Palladino. I don't want to make money or fame, I just want to play with some characters that aren't mine, because I appreciate what she's done with them.
> 
>  **Author's Note** : This would be my version of the anti-Dean manifesto, I think. From plenty of Season 1 and 2 re-runs and long talks with my mother about Why Dean Sucks, along with a healthy dislike of the contrived Season 4/5 plotline. (Not all of it was contrived. What was bothered me.) And--I should probably say--I wasn't planning on making this linear, but since I'm watching Season 2 for the first time, the muse is striking linearly. So, the last one hijacked "Run Away, Little Boy" and this one hijacks "A-Tisket, A-Tasket." Enjoy.

"Don't go." She looks at him, pleading, upset and frustrated that once again, he's angry at her. It doesn't feel like that long since they got back together, and lately it seems like all of it since their second anniversary (on the sixth, rather than the twenty-second) has been fighting.

She doesn't want him to be angry at her. She likes it much better when he's smiling, when he looks adorably young and has dimples. But she's sure that this time at least--though often she simply has a denial problem larger than that longest of rivers--it's not her fault, and she's almost angry at Dean for turning it back on her.

"Look, Dean, it's a picnic; it's lunch. We'll sit; we'll eat; it's over," she argues, trying to make him see how unreasonable he's being. It's not like she _wanted_ to eat lunch with the local hoodlum of only a few months. She much prefers the _old_ hoodlum, the Stars Hollow brand hoodlum, the one that incites girls to shoplifting corn starch and "free" soda. She wishes he would get that.

But he's not understanding, he's saying "I don't want you to go" as if those words will make all the difference. He sounds like he's three, and she almost hates him for it. She does hate him for making a scene here, in front of the whole town--in front of Jess, playing it exactly how Jess planned it. She hates him for making her the bad guy for being honorable. And--as selfish as it is--she hates how he's dragging her down in the muck in front of people who think she's perfect. She isn't perfect, but she sure as hell isn't like _this._

"Dean," she finds herself pleading, and now she hates herself for being weak, for trying to make him not hate her when it's _him_ that's being unreasonable. And she knows she's being ungrammatical, but what's the sense of grammar when--"this isn't my fault! I didn't ask him to do that, I didn't tell him to do that. Dean, you're my _boyfriend!_ I would never do anything to hurt you."

She finds it all spilling out, and she sounds pleading, but inside she's growing angry. She prays something'll catch in his clueless head, because she doesn't really want to know what will come out of her mouth next.

"Yeah? You're doing it right now," Dean says back to her, and his tone is meant to cut. He turns to walk away.

And she finds herself snapping.

"Why do you always do that?" she bites out, and he whirls back.

"What?" She has heard this tone-of-voice before, the one that sounds like rocks crashing individually, brutally, from a thousand-foot cliff.

"Why do you always do that? Why do you always make it my fault? Why do you have to be the martyr? Why is it always about me?" He is even angrier now, and his face has the set of crushing rocks too, but she doesn't care.

"You don't get it either, do you, Dean? You're the one that's always mad at me for not spending enough time with you. Why is that? Huh? How come when you have to hang out with Todd or play some football or do some science project all I get is to be disappointed but when I have to do my homework or work on my resume or take care of Lane or my mom, it's a personal affront? I have a _life_ , Dean! I'm not just here as some sort of sick American version of Remedios. I don't die on command, Dean, and you're sure no Colonel Aureliano!"

She hears Jess's appreciative cough in the background, and allows herself a small smile for having enough presence of mind to work Latin American literature into an argument.

Dean, on the other hand, is looking at her cluelessly, his anger somewhat dimmed by his puzzlement. "What the hell are you on, Rory?" he asks, and the half-sigh in it has some affection.

But Rory won't hear any of it. "I'm not your personal play-toy, Dean," she hisses. "I'm tired of it."

And his anger flares up again. "Excuse me? Who are you making yourself the saint? Oh yeah, Saint Rory, the one who tries to wiggle out of letting her boyfriend come watch her at her play rehearsal when he just wants to be with her for a little bit. Saint Rory who brushes her boyfriend off so she can go over her stupid lists again, because she has to get into _Harvard_. You know what? I thought if you were going to be my girlfriend, you might actually want to be with me. I thought you might love me. But I guess I was wrong."

And she deflates, because he hasn't seen it _again_. She sighs, and listens to the sounds of Stars Hollow for a moment, and begins again in a quiet tone. "I _do_ want to be with you, Dean. But that's not the point of loving you." She grows impatient again for a second and stamps her foot. "Loving you is supposed to be about--I dunno, doing what's best for you or something. Even when it's hard or sucks or whatever, it's supposed to be about not being selfish. And loving me is supposed to be like that too. You're supposed to see what's best for me and not let you get in the way. Or--I don't know, but it's not supposed to be like _this_ , Dean! It's not supposed to be guilting me into letting you do a sultan-Nazi Indiana Jones exchange."

"I do like you," Rory whispers, the tears beginning unexpectedly to tilt down the sides of her nose. "I do want to be with you. And that's why I'm crying, and why this hurts."

Dean is beginning to see what's happening here, and he doesn't like it at all. He opens his mouth, but the fury and the attraction war with each other and leave him to gape like a fish. He makes a strangled sound, but Rory cuts him off, quietly, examining the hands that she is twisting quietly together.

"I don't think we should be together anymore."

Dean finds his voice. "Aw, come on, Rory, jeez. I didn't mean it _that_ way."

"This isn't healthy, Dean. I'm sorry; I like you a lot. But we can't do this anymore." She half turns away from him, so she won't have to look at the rage any more, and so he won't see how her heart is breaking.

"Fine," Dean snaps, cracking instantly back into the dominating stranger. The person who doesn't understand her at all. The person that was _never_ her boyfriend. "Be that way, Rory. But don't come crying to me when you realize you were just imitating Lorelai."

She gasps, angry again. "Fine!" she yells, and turns completely away from him. She doesn't watch as he stalks off.

As Rory calms down and the tears begin leaking out again, she hears the town return to its auction. She's not sure how much they've overheard, but she's grateful that they're pretending it didn't happen right in front of them. Miss Patty and Babette will want all the dish later, but now they're staring in some other direction, seemingly fascinated by their fellow townspeople and Taylor's insistent auctioneering.

She sighs angrily, kneads the tears out of her eyes with her fists. She startles when Jess appears by her shoulder, smirking approvingly. "So then, shall we?" he asks, as if none of this has fazed him. As if none of what she's yelled has been of any significance.

Suddenly, she thinks he feels exactly like Dean, exactly as selfish and self-absorbed. So she winds back and slaps him firmly across the face. He reels for a moment, and she realizes that if Lorelai hadn't been surrounded by the crowd--if everyone hadn't been so studiously ignoring her--someone would have tackled Jess to the ground by now. She feels a little guilty.

"Fine," she sighs. "Let's go." And--perhaps she needs a little comfort now, and perhaps she deserves a little--she grabs his hand.


	3. Tell Him You'd Rather Be Doing Laundry

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Disclaimer:** None of it belongs to me. The characters and half the dialogue belongs to Amy Sherman-Palladino. The rest of the words belong to Shakespeare and Noah Webster.
> 
>  **Author's Note:** If there were a way to reply to reviews individually, I'd probably do a better job of thanking people for them. Sorry.
> 
> At any rate...this chapter cough is a little more Literati than I mean to be. And I really don't mean these to be all of Dean. But, as I've never seen Season 3, I've never seen Rory with anyone else who deserves to be dumped... so...yeah. This chapter is for OnLoveInSadness, because her yay happy review made my three days in a row in such a way that I had to watch another episode and write another chapter. And, as generally, reviews are pretty play-toys that do things like make me write more...

She follows him inside the house, sighing angrily. She understands that Dean, as her boyfriend, has every right to be jealous of her and time she spends with anyone else. To be honest, she likes that he's so overprotective: she knows he loves her. But...it can be a little scary when Dean gets mad. And, for some reason she doesn't understand yet, she wants to spend time with Jess. Dean can be upset about it, but he's going to have to _deal_.

She wonders how in the world she can tell him that. He's going to be mad enough already without her insinuating he's too controlling. That'll make him _really_ mad.

"What the hell is going on?" he demands. He's loud. And angry. Rory understands; he has perfect reason to be angry.

She ignores the seed of anger his words ignite and fights to keep everything normal. She doesn't want to be fighting with her boyfriend. Really, she doesn't. "Dean, you remember Paris, right?"

He's not listening; he's examining the scene of the crime. Paris quietly disappears into the other room with a mumbled "I was just...going."

"You told me you were doing laundry tonight," Dean says.

"I was."

"And now you're here with Jess."

The little piece of Rory that's frustrated and angry shoots back a _So what_? She ignores it. "And Paris," she points out.

" _Jess_ , Rory!"

"I _know_ it was Jess, okay? I swear, I didn't--"

"You didn't what? You didn't know he was coming over?"

Why would it have been so bad if she did? She likes spending time with Jess. She likes being free and choosing who to visit on the spur of the moment. When she was about six or seven--before Mrs. Kim decided she was a corrupting influence--she used to drop by Lane's house whenever she got home from school and finished her homework before Lorelai got home. When she was eleven or twelve, she used to visit Miss Patty and Babette and listen to the gossip; she got her sex ed that way. Now, she plans her visits to friends around Dean, so he won't be mad.

"Well he was...and the diner, the diner was...and I..." Rory tries. The niggling doubts she has about her relationship with Dean are jouncing her stomach, making it hard to concentrate. Hard to explain.

"And you what? What? Say something!"

She snaps--"Stop yelling!"--then immediately cowers. She didn't want to start an argument; she wanted Dean to be happy again. Dean who is her boyfriend, who loves her.

But Dean's saying she lied to him, and...if he doesn't trust her...she can't think. Every romance novel she's read on the sly clammers inside her head, dripping insipid, overwrought prose, reminding her that trust is the foundation of love.

"It's complicated!" she begs. "I'm trying to explain it to you!"

"Ugh, that's crap!"

"No, Dean, it's _true_!"

"Fine," he snaps. _Fine_. The way he ends all his arguments. He'll stomp off, and she'll apologize tomorrow when he's not so angry and frightening, and once Lorelai's given her good advice on how to craft her words ever-so-carefully...everything will be okay again. It'll be good again.

And then she finds herself yelling back, "No, it's not fine! You accuse me of lying to you, and you say everything's 'fine?' It may look fine from up there, Mary Poppins, but I haven't started laughing yet!"

"Fine," Dean says again. "Explain it to me, please." Rory has never understood the word "sneer," but she thinks she's seeing one now. A novel experience.

"Luke wanted me to have food. Jess brought it over. It was a nice gesture."

"And the staying?" He still doesn't believe her.

"You know, it really isn't your business who I'm having dinner with! It wasn't like I planned a massive make-out session on the couch in the middle of _Dawson's Creek_ reruns!"

"I told you to stay away from him, Rory!"

"And I told you that I knew you didn't like him, but you'd have to live with him!"

Dean's face changes abruptly, and his voice drops ten decibels. "That's it, isn't it?" He sounds defeated. "You like him, don't you? Not me."

"What?" Rory is genuinely confused. "That's crazy! _You're_ my boyfriend, Dean!"

"I'm your boyfriend, but you don't want to spend any time with me. I'm your boyfriend, but you don't respect my wishes. I'm your boyfriend, but you send me away on a Friday night so you can spend time with a tramp from your snotty little private club and a delinquent sent away to his uncle's reform school. Yeah, Rory, I'm your boyfriend."

Something shifts in Rory's head--she's not sure what--and she finds herself staring at Dean Forrester as if at a stranger. "You know what?" she says quietly. "You're not my boyfriend." She turns, leaving him gaping in front of the refrigerator, walks to her room, and locks the door behind her.

It's at least three minutes before she hears the sound of furniture being thrown around and the crack of shattered china. Two minutes after that, the kitchen door slams shut. Rory huddles between her bed and her dresser until long after she's sure he's gone.

"You're not my boyfriend," she whispers to the air. She plugs her fingers in her ears and rocks, trying to drown out the hurt. Then she unlocks the door and wanders to the living room, letting her fingers scrape against the furniture and the walls along the way. The textures--smooth varnish, rough cabinet, bumpy wall--are comforting.

She ignores Paris, who, for once, looks sympathetic. She picks up the phone, returns to her bedroom, turns the lock. "Thank you for supper, Paris," she calls through the door. "It was fun. I'll see you tomorrow."

"Are you okay?" Paris calls back. Rory doesn't answer. After a while, she hears rummaging in the living room and then the front door being opened and quietly shut.

She stares at the phone in her hands, huddles back down against the books under her bed. After a long while, she hits "on" and dials the number.

"Jess?" she says. "Come back, please? I need you."

She ignores the words on the other end, because, finally, she breaks down and sobs. When he says he'll be right over, she clicks the phone off.

He comes in through the window and he holds her. He's warm and smells of spice and something lovely, and his hands graze her spine, soothing. He tucks his chin against her hair and murmurs gentle words in a New York drawl. She almost thinks everything will be okay again. Almost.


End file.
